Tadfield's Finest
by Sarcasm for free
Summary: Thomas Plimpton is an ordinary bored teenage boy. He's not so bored anymore when he catches Adam Young hovering five metres above the ground. – or – On the day of the apocalypse, Adam Young gains a pair of stalkers. (Gen, Ensemble fic, minor Aziraphale/Crowley)


Thomas Plimpton was as ordinary as a bored teenage boy from Tadfield, England, could be. And as a bored teenage boy at the tender age of sixteen going on seventeen, the best gift his father thought to bestow upon him was his trusted pair of binoculars (because daddy dearest had apparently never heard of something called a Netflix subscription), which made living in Tadfield the tiniest bit less boring.

At least when Mrs. Rochester thought it was a lovely day to sunbath topless in her yard.

Since that was not the case on this remarkably dull – even for Tadfield standards – evening in autumn, Thomas Plimpton used his binoculars for not as enjoyable things, mainly to stare at the hectares of stupid woodland behind his house.

And so he did what any self-respecting teenage boy would do when he spied, through the thick lenses, Adam Young hovering five metres above the ground.

"Mate," Thomas bellowed into his barely yanked out mobile, "get your ass over here, asap!"

Rod Springer, called Roderick by everyone who hated him or was angry at him for non-closely defined reasons, and had been Thomas' best friend since his family had flown in from America for his father's job, grunted.

"I think the fuck _not._ Grandma made apple strudel."

"Get over here, you tosser! Adam Young is levitating and his eyes are glowing red!" He double-checked through the spyglass. Yep, still ruby-red and creepy as fuck.

"Dude, you promised you wouldn't get into the pot without me," Rod said faintly, resignation setting in.

"I swear, the weirdo kid from down the street is doing some Exorcist-worthy shit, so get over here, you twat, or I'm going journeying into the great unknown without you and you'll regret it for the rest of your life!"

A huff, a puff, and Rod said, "Fine."

Complacently, Thomas nodded at his phone and watched as the mouths of three neighbourhood kids vanished.

"And bring the strudel."

* * *

While waiting for Rod, who would eat his pants after seeing he was right, Thomas did the only sensible thing, in his opinion. He ran like mad, and then tiptoed like mad, to the woods to eavesdrop. (He was a bored teenage boy. Nobody had said he was a sane or smart teenage boy. Which, honestly, would have been a contradiction in itself.)

So when Rod finally arrived – and thankfully not on foot but in his father's imported Ford, which meant he'd nicked the car keys again – the children were already gone, but Thomas was lots of information richer.

"The Tadfield Air Base, that's where they fucked off to," Thomas said and threw the passenger door closed as he settled in. "Oh. And apparently the world is ending, but the boy's not evil anymore."

Rod squinted at him from the driver's seat. "Your eyes aren't bloodshot. Does that mean there's still pot left?"

"Adam Young's the one with the red eyes, not me. I told you."

"Yeah, but an eleven-year-old in the sleepiest town this side of England probably doesn't smoke weed," Rod griped.

"The son of the devil might. Now shut your gob and drive."

Rolling his eyes, Rod sighed and turned the key in the ignition. "Just for the record, I'm doing this under protest."

"Duly noted."

The time it had cost them to banter amounted to exactly 5 minutes and 23 seconds, if anyone was counting – and there was always someone counting – and therefore was enough to lose sight of the children.

"Awesome, we're lost."

"We're not lost, we know where they're going," Thomas groaned, though it still didn't mean they knew how to get there by car.

The Ford snailed through Tadfield's bustling center, which meant past the lone grocery store and only hair salon in town, open on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m.

On their way, Rod peeked at each and every side street, far and few between as they were, and the accompanying street signs. "I'd say we make it a day and go home. No idea how to get to that air base. I'm American, not some local homeboy."

Thomas blew him a raspberry. "Stop talking shit. You've been living here since your family flew over the big pond eleven years ago."

They were one scuffle away from coming to a halt when a vintage car swallowed by flames raced past them and came to a sudden halt next to Mr. Tyler and his wiener on legs. The driver cranked his window down and started talking to the old stick in the mud.

Mr. Tyler almost strangled his dog in an attempt to pick him up while answering as the boys pulled the handbrake. Thomas would have preferred to listen in, but the Ford was so old, the window handles had broken off a long time ago and as a result they were permanently stuck shut.

"This," Rod gestured at the fire, his eyes wide as saucers, "looks pretty world-ending, right?"

"Yep," Thomas popped the P.

"We're…following the burning car?"

"We're following the burning car."

* * *

This turned out to be the smartest dumb idea they'd had all day since it got them exactly where they wanted to be, just in time to see drama unfold which made Mrs. Rochester's free swinging tits seem boring. (That was a bold-faced lie. Bare tits were never boring. _Never._)

Parked on the street across from the gates of Tadfield Air Base, both Thomas and Rod chilled on their reclined car seats, the doors thrown wide open, straining their ears and eyes to the max – near enough to get every tidbit of juicy shit in stereo and high definition, but far enough away for the freak brigade to not notice.

"The lady sounds like she's two people – Aunt Nettie and a Victorian dandy," Rod said, staring at an older woman wearing drapes talking to the homeless guy next to her.

Thomas pulled a piece of strudel from the Tupperware container and briefly thought about picking out some of the raisins. In the end, he left them in. He didn't want to look like a heathen.

The screech of tires and the blazing car hurtling onto the scene made him swallow without tasting as someone who looked like he wanted to audition for the role of the long lost fifth member of the Rolling Stones swaggered out of the inferno, not a scratch on him.

"There's a living and breathing guy who just got out from a burning and still driving car and you're worried about an old lady doing voice acting." He once more bit into his strudel, rolling the sweet filling around in his mouth. Rum raisins. Might not be such a bad idea to keep them in, after all.

Rod punched him in the arm in retaliation for dropping mushy-baked apple pieces onto the upholstery (as if it was possible to make the car interior look more dingy) and spluttered, "How did we even get here before him? _We_ were following _him_!"

Thomas chewed slower, then shrugged. "Well, you got me. By all accounts, it doesn't make sense."

They both cringed as flameo hotman flirted with drape auntie. Ugh, old people sex, coming up.

From there on, it became a lot more hectic for, like, five seconds before everyone disappeared into secured air base territory.

"How did the kids get here just now?"

"Stop questioning, it stopped making sense ten minutes ago."

"It made never sense to begin with!"

"Chill and eat more strudel."

"I swear I know that guy." Rod did his squinty-thing again and grabbed Thomas' binoculars from the dashboard, intent on getting a close-up of This Guy Is on Fire falling to his knees, screaming heavenwards.

"Hush, can't you see he's having a moment," Thomas said, transferring apple bits from the car seat to his mouth.

"His car was burning, it should have been a given. And I swear I know him," which Rod forgot about the moment the old hobo did the finger gun, the lady snapped her fingers, and the party pooper of a military gatekeeper denying them entry popped out of existence, which led to everyone wandering into the airbase.

"They're all in there, we should–" Thomas started.

"Fuck no, we stay right here! They just obliterated that guy! I'm not interested in being next in line."

"He's probably just somewhere else, like Hawaii. You're boring, let's–"

"No," and Rod secured Thomas with the leg scissors move that had got him onto the ringer team and in turn made Thomas think about the one time he'd accidentally watched gay porn. That one had kind of started similar, minus the apocalypse.

Yes, it was slightly frustrating to sit here, patting his best friend's thigh and eating the second to last piece of strudel when the real action was going on somewhere else. Then the earth shook and suddenly a whole air base of distance didn't seem enough as Satan himself broke through the ground and you could see him even from a little old Ford.

The leg scissors became a full body hug whilst Rod screamed into his ear and made him drop the Tupperware container. He was so melodramatic.

But the devilish monstrosity shrunk as fast as he'd emerged and left nothing more behind for Thomas to gawk at than a non-descript car driving through the open gate and Rod almost in his lap.

"You mind?"

Scooting backwards till he was sat firmly on his side of the car again, Rod glowered. "Not a word, asshat."

Thomas zipped his mouth, threw the imaginary key away and pointed at the horde of weirdos strolling out of the danger zone. The neighbourhood kids, Mr. Young (mystery solved), drape lady, homeless guy, flaming cheetos, a hot bird, a nerd, and…

Rod spluttered, "Oh my fucking god!"and hit Thomas right on the ear in his flailing. "I fucking knew it. I know that guy." He pointed at the red-headed real life stick figure. "And I also know that one." He flung his hand in the direction of Whitey McWhiterson, who they'd never seen go in there in the first place.

Rod looked so immensely satisfied with himself and the brilliance of his memory preserving skills, Thomas didn't have the heart to kick him in the bollocks for the head whack, and so he just continued rubbing his stinging ear.

"The worst birthday party I've ever been to!"

The Worst-Party-Ever had been labelled so last week, when Thomas had to listen to Rod's bitching about having to help his dad at work, checking the perimeters for the birthday party of his diplomat boss' kid, followed by having to listen to even greater fits of bitching for the simple reason that an ensuing food fight had led to the total destruction of his favorite band t-shirt.

"That's the bloody awful magician and his caterer boyfriend!" Who had been dubbed Worst-Magician-Ever and Worst-Caterer-Ever in Rod's retelling of the evening. ("Who's threatening never ceasing torture by ripped out toenails just because I ate the last mini-burger?! Who does that?! And no, I don't want to see another coin trick!")

Zeroing in on them, Thomas watched as the group split up. "So who or what do you guess they are _really_? Because bugger all if they're just part of that diplomat's staff."

Rod edged his side's door slowly shut. "The black and white dynamic is strong in these two. And the caterer came here in a blaze of fire, so…" He activated the door lock on his side, the old Sunday school goer. "I guess at least one of them is demonic," he turned his seat up again, "in nature."

Watching the odd pair respectively strolling and whatever it was that guy did with his limbs made Thomas question how evil those two could be. Threats of ripped out toenails notwithstanding, they seemed more like someone's fabulous gay uncles than agents of hell. Listening to them was even worse.

"Well, my dear," Whitey tittered, fidgeting with his hands clasped in front of his stomach, "this turned out tickety-boo, wouldn't you say."

Make that someone's fabulous gay great-great-great uncle.

They traipsed on, on the same street the boys parked on. Good for spying, bugger for Rod's blood pressure.

Alleged demon guy smirked. "No, not what I would say, but yeah, angel." He pursed his lips. "Tickety-boo." He said it as if he wanted to try the sound out for himself, hard _ck_ and drawn out _oo_, and nudged his companion further along onto the pavement. His elbow kept contact with the angel's – holy fuck, in the truest sense of the word – own arm, for longer than was necessary or seemed comfortable. The arm position alone gave Thomas a sympathy tennis elbow.

"To the bus stop?" The smile the demon bestowed upon the other was a bit wobbly, his voice too, Thomas noticed.

Stopping abruptly, the angel turned to the demon with empathetic eyes, laying his hand on his right arm, unwittingly breaking their elbow-footsie game.

"Crowley, I'm so sorry about the Bentley."

Thus Thomas and Rod learned three effing things at once. 1) The demon had a name and it was Crowley. 2) What a Bentley looked like when in flames. 3) That demons were able to be bloody awkward.

Crowley jammed both hands into his trouser pockets. How he did that with how little space there seemed to be was anyone's guess.

"Forget it, angel, it's…" He hummed, something clogging his throat, all echz- and uuh-sounds. Thomas didn't know if to call it tears or vomit. He put his money on the former. Either way, it was freaking weird.

In the next second Crowley caught himself, straightening up. "I'm also sorry, about the, you know," he mumbled as his expression fluctuated between at least twenty different emotions. Though it was hard to say for Thomas on which one it stayed, with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

The angel rubbed his hand up and down Crowley's arm and smiled, a bit puzzled, as the crinkle between his eyebrows suggested. "It's quite a crum-a-grackle, but I'm sure everything will sort itself out."

"You know where you–" Crowley fake-coughed, slipping his left hand out of his pocket to rub his neck. "Tonight, since the fire–"

And it was this precise moment that the angel's head snapped up, body, eyes and nose at attention.

"Do you smell that, dear boy?" His head swiveled left and right, his hand switching from rubbing Crowley's arm to tugging on his sleeve.

When his eyes lit up and a grin spread over his face, Thomas knew they were fucked.

"Apple strudel!"

Thomas smashed his car door closed, racked the hand brake loose and hissed, "Hit it, Roderick."

He was all for action and adventure, but there were limits, and getting caught spying on a demon _by_ a demon, albeit a lovey dovey one, when the party was already over, wasn't on his bucket list. He liked his toenails exactly where they were.

They drove away, hitting an astounding speed of 60 kilometres per hour.

* * *

As the strange angel and demon wandered in the direction of the bus stop, Pepper turned to Adam, who had uprighted his bike but hadn't taken a seat after waving his dad away. The day wasn't over, after all, there was still fun to have and his house arrest could as easily start with tomorrow.  
Mr. Young was such a pushover.

Adam was the antichrist and most often their leader (she would have to bring a petition forward to rotate leadership every week), but waiting on him wasn't on, the patriarchy could suck it.

"Pepper to Adam." She put her left foot on the pedal of her own bike, ready to roll. "What are you staring at? We want to go."

Brian and Wensleydale nodded.

A contemplative look on his face, Adam gazed at the end of the street, where a hideously banged up old-people car had careened around the corner. Looking contemplative wasn't new as far as Adam-behaviour went, but he would have to lose the habit of staring without blinking he'd developed in the last 24 hours, Pepper decided. That was just creepy. He looked like he knew more than he should, as if a thousand different plots ran together in his head in these moments, and he could pluck them loose with just a tug.

"In the end, we were very lucky, so it _should_ be a good day for everyone," he said monotonously and concentrated, on what, Pepper had no clue.

He blinked, _finally_, and settled on his bike, smiling. "Hey, guys, back to the forest?"

* * *

"You owe me ten years of my life, fuckface," Rod said and dropped back onto Thomas' bed, spread eagled and exhausted.

"I heard you the first time, Moaning Myrtle." Stepping around the third biggest heap of dirty clothes in his room, Thomas walked up to his window. In the motion of setting his binoculars at their rightful place on the sill, he paused. _No way_.

Rod rolled onto his side, ignoring the putrid smell of the single sock next to his face on the duvet. "What have you found now?" He groaned. "You know what, I don't care. If it's aliens, tell them to come back next week." Then he shot up, ramrod straight. "It's not aliens, is it?"

"No. No aliens, sorry." Thomas slipped the binoculars in front of his face. "Better."

Slowly, cautiously, Rod crept closer to peer around his best friend into the yard.

Despite the chilly weather and the setting sun, Mrs. Rochester laid her bath towel onto her lounge chair.

Rod bullied Thomas to the side, squashing himself next to him for a prime position for the show.

Layer after layer of sensible clothes dropped onto the sunbed. Thomas and Rod held their breath.

"No!" rang their cries as their hearts (which were luckily not located in their genitals, in the face of all evidence against it) broke while, instead of loosening a nicely laced bikini top, Belinda Rochester reclined on the chair with the latest issue of Vogue in hand – clad in a high-necked grey bathing costume with ruffles.

Adam Young liked happy endings as much as the next antichrist, but he was also an 11-year-old kid.


End file.
